This post will end in xxx-rated gay sex in a restaurant after closing. The setting is San Francisco 1981, a period of flagrant disregard for normal mores, a period of sexual revolution for gay men. This sex romp (based on an actual event, not unusual in its spontaneity) follows considerable prologue which may be  of more general interest. The privileged life of the upperupperclass of San Francisco in 1981 was, shall we say, privileged. The adult section starts well into this post and, as said, is clearly marked in all-caps, underlined, bold as a warning. 

The photo was taken by Bill who I always serviced myself. Hella nice guy, I liked him enough to throw him an “on the house, dude” from time to time. Kinda like a bartender pouring a regular customer a freebie – don’t cost much – just time and energy I could have used on a paying customer, but like I said he was a sweetheart and sex with him was always fun and occasionally intense – and a freebie always is always appreciated. 

When the client is paying $100/hour outta the gate, with surcharges that could run hundreds more, this is where I began my career in customer service. My motto: under promise and over deliver. I’ve found if you apply that to your life in general, it smooths out the bumps. 

This particular event was an ‘on the house’ considering he picked up the tab for my early b-day party about which you will soon be reading. And at my next visit to his home a couple weeks later for my actual birthday, we had private fun after the guests left. I mentioned his frozen gins. This time it was vodka with a label in Cyrillic, a plate of toast points, and some chopped hard boiled egg. What am I forgetting? The large glass jar, sitting in crushed ice, of beluga. I should be ashamed to admit that halfway – well, maybe a bit more – through the bottle, we were eating the beluga off body parts which were rarely exposed to such expensive yet effective lube. 

Bill would have been great to live with, but it wouldn’t have worked and we both knew it. Mo bettah friends with outstanding benefits including a little white envelope in my hip pocket on my way home. I took his checks, l knew where he lived. (rimshot) Also, I think he was one of those clients who had the need to pay for sex. Its actually a fairly common idiosyncrasy, I discovered as time went by. Personal Opinion: a lot of men carry a lot of guilt associated with kinky sex, particularly gay kinky sex, especially associated with a definitely out-of-the-norm activity in performing certain gay kinky sex acts. 

Another reason it wouldn’t’vd worked was differences. He was less than 10 years older, really not that much but it was an important distinction in terms of outlook. Born late 1930s, he remembered his father coming home from WW II, was definitely part of Greatest Generation. Late 1940s, I came in under the wire for Baby Boomer, but I trended younger in friends, sometimes by 15 years or more. Consequently I picked up on stuff like drugs, music, dance – introducing them in turn to Bill et al. 

The prologue is a long evening beginning in a house in an affluent section of San Francisco. There are two protagonists: the owner of said house, a semi-out-member of The City’s 1%; the guest, well known – in certain circles, at least – as one of the premier hustlers servicing Russian Hill to The Presidio. Let’s call ‘m Bill – householder – and me – hustler.

It began *Way Back When* I was making my first visit – and a long, loving adventure begins.

First, Way Back When: I went on my first out-call to Bill’s (not Billy the hustler) house, and we just hit it off surprisingly well. We had a couple of beers throughout the afternoon, some casual nudity in the hot tub, sun going down through the Golden Gate Bridge, stir-fry and left-over rice for dinner

coupleajointscoupleoflinesquaaludeeachrsvpcognag and first-time sex. It was better than first-time sex usually is – always questions that first time: Who does what to whom? Do you like this or that? What positions? Lots to take in, to learn. So first time, among some groups, is essentially is there going to be a second time? 

We woke up the next morning classic spoon to a heavy fog, water dripping down the window, fog horns and morningsex was like we’d been doing each other for years. 

Tongue licksspincterrelaxedtopressure backsarchedinunison sweatpantbreathe pushpullpushpullfastfaster break fingersentwinedinsertedrotatedtouchingslidinggrindingpubeontopofpubes tongueearneck anditbegins musclesflex pubescrushpubes tongueneckearbitelickpull kneestoearsvulnerableasonlyanassupboywaitingforpenetrationcanbevulnerable theassupboyisbreathinghardashardashisasswaitsinfuckinganticipation fullonplungesintomyasssixsevenandmynutsareexplodingeightninemyass

fuckingbuckingbuckingfuckedsofuckedsofucked fuck

And that was our first morning together. 

Myassholepuckersjustthinkingabouthowhefuckedme.

[Aside: Here’s where I spout my personal opinion on the subject of Sex. I think it should have all the significance of shaking hands. Think about it – spend a half hour naked and horizontal with neighbor Jerry, and you’ll learn more about him than in 10 years talking over the fence. Is he fun, giving, romantic sensual, or cold standoffish rude stiff (and not the good way). Have sex with someone and learn more than any other way. Enjoy!

To continue: When I was in the 2nd grade, I was molested. Joyfully, happily, wonderfully molested. I was standing in line for the water fountain. A ‘big kid’ probably a 6th grader – one of the ‘big boys’ – sidled up awfully close behind me then fingers firmly grabbed butt cheeks slow squeeze and release. I think my whispered response was unexpected, “Do that again.” And he did. And I realized being touched did not have to be painful. In other words, what my mother did to me rather frequently wasn’t the way of the rest of the world. More or less.]

On this particular Sunday, Bill and I went out (the place was closed on Monday, common for top-tier restaurants) and it was most definitely an event for which 1st class is inadequate. [You can skip ahead if you want, this is just going to be me traipsing down a really good memory. And once I start a traipse, I can make Proust look hurried.] 

One memorable evening (this is the one that is to be restricted to open-minded adults, so watch for the warning) we started early with the fun-and-games. It was as much fun as usual, but Bill kept things moving along instead of dawdling as usual at certain activities. He admitted dinner reservations, so we took a break, showering together (sessions with him tended to involve lots of lube). He was a genuine gourmet: several kinds of anchovy paste, European butter, unusual condiments. odd flavored jams, and he knew how to combine ingredients in novel ways. Some time cuddling in front of the fireplace, martinis, candles, usually Mozart which was fine by me – I’m partial to the Concerto for Clarinet and Orchestra in C Major. 

 

Now I will give Bill this, he made a killer martini. Kept a selection of British gins in a deep freeze along with a couple of different vermouths in glass spray bottles. Gin and ice stirred with vermouth sprayed on the surface. Frozen martini glasses big enough for fish to swim in, filled, topped with a twist. Due to the different combinations of the gins/vermouths, each one was a little different. Each two was a serious buzz. 

I had arrived in clean but nondescript clothes. (In all probability, my PCH hitching/surfing look; picture posted.) We wore close to the same size – I was a little taller, he had a more solid build. So there we were, both of us stark naked, in his walk-in closet. We made a deal – I’d pick for him, he’d do for me. Much groping, giggling, we were both higher than kites, energy music. I picked Hot Tuna, ‘First Pull Up, Then Pull Down’ with Poppa John Creech on electric fiddle; he surprised the hell of of me picking Disco Tex and the Sex-O-Lets – you should have seen us bumping body parts bent over his stack of sweaters from Barney’s N.Y. I put him in an unconstructed plum-colored jacket, dark gray slacks, black shirt with a crimson Hermès handkerchief around the neck. I was put in a white linen suit, dark plum shirt (to pick up his jacket), and a USC crimson and gold tie. The effect was stunning (or maybe stunned is the better word). 

[Aside: He really loved hearing my life story – the total opposite of his. He was upper-crust-very-rich-for-generations. I was quite literally trailer trash. He thought it hilarious that I’d put myself through university, working for an escort service with a male clientele. He’d joke about no wonder I was good in bed. I’d tell him about college roommates: one’s father was the president of a multi-national corporation (summers, he’d accompany his father to South America, South Pacific, South Africa and bring back souvenirs to pass around), another father was a county Superintendent of Schools – they were all rich, had grown up rich. I’d throw into discussions stuff like picking cotton, transferring schools 12 times, etc. It was an interesting mix, particularly since I had to keep my pro life totally separate from school. 

Talking on the phone could be tricky. The fear my lily-white roommates would learn I was paying the rent by putting my knees firmly against my ears and letting some stranger – or not, I did get enough repeat business to start my own client list – shove his body parts around/under/in my body parts kept me on my verbal toes. They thought I had a girlfriend who went to UCLA and was ashamed to show her. I did not disabuse them of the notion. 

So Bill and I get it slowly together, and his car shows up. Blew a primo joint and arrived at Le Verdun(?) to such bowing-and-scraping as appropriate for Louis XIV dropping by the Richelieu house for crackers and cheese. Killer table in a corner. (If you’ve ever worked in a high-end restaurant, you know there’s usually a couple of tables that are considered primo territory. The manager usually maintains a list of patrons, pastpresenthopefullyinthefuture, who are automatically put at these best-of-the-best tables.) From the front door, an aisle with 2 and 4 person tables on one side, chairs across from banquettes on the other, came straight at our table. 

It was a spacious 4, with more tables/banquettes along the right angle. Softly lit by a couple of baby pins, behind us sprays of flowers against pale red (not pink!) brocade walls, tasteful bits of gold accessories, it had a centerpiece that held several candles. All in all, obviously a power table. When just the two of us were seated, it caused some remark and a bit of neck-craning to see if we were important. Deciding we must be among the anonymous rich, the normal ebb/flow of a well-run establishment resumed. 

That is until a veritable parade of staff began appearing from the kitchen. Covered silver salvers, miniature tureens, platters steaming, all impeccably served by tuxedoed waiters. It was an either 16- or 18- tasting course he had arranged with the chef. He said to call it an early birthday present by a couple of weeks. Secretly I was so very touched by the gesture. 

I figured he might just think of me as an on-call expensive piece of tail, at best a weird symbiotic sex thing with benefits of being friendly. But he remembered we talked food – and he had let me cook in his kitchen, Unheard of!, one of his society friends said when Bill mentioned I’d fixed a specialty for a party (just pimento cheese straws but you ain’t never had ‘em the way I fix ‘em!) – and he put together a tasting menu of extravagantdecadentopulentluxe ingredients, and this was back when you could still get the beluga, remember?

I took a professional interest the technique one waiter used to spatchcock quail before putting it on heated flat rocks, only seconds to turn a small round thing into a small flat thing, and then into delicious morsels to be dipped in a sweettartsoursauce. Learnable, of course, but one of those things you really don’t need to learn unless you need the skill, i.e. spatchcocking a quail. Just how many people even know it’s a thing, let alone need to learn to do it? 

The evening was long and happy. People he knew stopped by (Willie Brown, among others), and he graciously introduced me without hesitation. I’m certain some figured the truth (one was actually an occasional client (he wanted new stuff each time, but I had serviced him first as I did with all new clients; some were blacklisted before I left their bed) and it was very much ‘how juddu’. 

Frankly, I hated it when clients collided, even it couldn’t be anticipated as in this situation – client b-list now knows I know client a-list, usable information – compartmentalization was key as far as I was concerned. Fortunately, client b-list was busted for something or other and disappeared from the scene for 15 to 20. 

We held court until closing, then hung around yakking with the wait-staff. My table-service experience in Hawaii came in handy, all top-of-line restaurants are similar in many respects, and closing is simple. Once the grunt work was out of the way, we thought 1) the place was closed the next day, and 2) why go somewhere else when we had all the makings of a party at our fingertips. 

As the evening progressed, Bill opened a tab with the manager and the night gradually took on aspects of a debauched celebration of food and wine (not to mention rum, bourbon, vodka, Everclear, . . .) worthy of Caligula. 

Kitchen staff joined the party and threw together a buffet. The head chef later told me it was a great way to clean out the fridge; any time a fridge like that needs to get rid of bits of roast prime rib, lobster, chocolate mousse – just visualize, kiddies, and let me know when and where. 

There came a time when Truth or Dare was suggested. The few straight members of the staff headed home. The rest of us, well, . . . A waiter and bus boy enacted serving vichyssoise – to a naked customer (played by the bus boy). There came the moment the vichyssoise spilled, the groinage area of the customer was coated with a delicious white substance, and the waiter was ready and able to clean the area to the last delicious drop. 

We were prevailed upon, “The dare is for the two of you to entertain us with something new.” Now if you go back to the beginning of this post, I said we’d gotten the fun and games out of the way earlier. Hours  had passed along with ingesting a substantial amount of booze, etc. So . . . 

We kinda looked at each other and “Let’s give ‘em a show they ain’t gonna forget.” We did, and here’s our performance.

DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU OR ANYONE IN YOUR HOUSE IS OFFENDED BY EXTREMELY EXPLICIT GAY SEXUAL ACTIVITY!!!

THE FOLLOWING WOULD BE CONSIDERED UNACCEPTABLE HARD-CORE PORNOGRAPHY IN 99% OF WORLD!!!

PROCEED ONLY AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

IF YOU’VE CHOSEN TO PROCEED, I HOPE THE SHOW WE PUT ON ENTERTAINS YOU!!!

First, way back when, I went on my first out-call to his house, and we just hit it off surprisingly well. We had a couple of beers throughout the afternoon, some casual nudity in the hot tub sun going down through the Golden Gate Bridge, stir-fry and left-over rice for dinner, coupleajointscoupleoflinesquaaludeeachrsvpcognac 

and first-time sex. 

It was better than first-time sex usually is – always the questions that first time: Who does what to whom? Do you like this or that? What positions? Lots to take in, to learn. So first time, for some people, is essentially to decide if there is going to be a second time. 

We woke up the next morning classic spoon to a heavy fog, water dripping down the window, fog horns and morningsex was like we’d been doing each other for years. Tongue licksSpincterrelaxedtopressure backsarchedinunison sweatpantbreathe pushpullpushpullfastfaster break fingersentwinedinsertedrotatedtouchingslidinggringingpubesontopofpube tongueearneck anditbegins musclesflex pubescrushpubes tongueneckearbitelickpull kneestoearsvulnerableasonlyanassupboywaitingtobepenetratedcanbevulnerable

butbigbut theassupboyisbreathinghardashardashisasswaitsinfuckinganticipation fullonplungesintomyasssixsevenandmynutsareexplodingeightninemyassbuckingfuckingbuckingfuckingbuckbuckFuckedfuckedfuck.  Ffffuuuuuucccccckkkkkkk.

And that was our first morning together. 

Myassholepuckersjustthinkingabouthowhefuckedtheshitouttame.

Now let’s get back to that restaurant, that crew of waiters, bus boys, and cooks waiting for whatever Bill and I were planning. 

Let’s set the setting, the ambiance of the restaurant so to speak:

The main restaurant was dark except for exit lights. The small banquet room was big enough for 10 12 people to circulate comfortably tablesinthecorner smalldancefloor 

couchesalongonewallwithremovablecushions paleredwallsgold wroughtironchandeliers allinallasnugroomforafriendlygroupofguys moststaffwerelatinofrommanycountries 

moststaffwerealreadyflyingonacid thisisnotunusualinthebetterrestaurants windowpanecomesonquickwhenyoupopitinyoureye 

1/2hrlaterwewereflyingwiththestaff amirroronatablewasusedtochoplineafterline discreetly, ashootinggalleryspoonstiesalcoholswabsrigsbindlesappearing

offinacornerbutwithenoughlighttofindavein

Gradually, nobody was wearing anything. A couple of the cooks were on the heavy side but all muscle. Not everybody wantsskinandboneslikeme. The waiters ranged from mid-20s to early-40s, again in good shape. This was S.F. early 80s, inshapewasin. Body types mostly skinny to mid-weight. Dicks from standard to a couple of whoppers, Bill in the top few. 

So, for our ‘Truth or Dare’: I got on my back on the floor with my legs on one of the couches, my butt hiked high as possible. Bill sits on couch, leans forward, and feeds his dick into my ass. The crew crowd around cheering us on. Bill picks a long skinny dick to come on over. Positioning himself facing Bill, he slid his dick in my ass next to Bill’s. 

It’s a good thing Iwason alcoholIVspeedcokeacidweed so Billandthekid aremakingout ihaveadickineachhand oneguyistonguebathingmytoes another backshiswayin andsitsonmymouth idoloveeatingass thestretch ofskin betweenthebackoftheballs andtheasshole is myfavoritepartofthemalebody

hairysmoothlickitslick 

shiftchintoassholerubithardhelovesitsitsslidesmychinhisass holeslickwithspit ingoesmyleftindexfinger hotboyasssquezerelaxsqueezerelax ingoesrightindexfinger boystartsshaking ipulloneachsideofhole pullpullpushpush lickthatspacebetweenmyfingers itsinhisassmyfingersandtongue hisholeisstretchedandlickedandstretched ipullmyfingersoutofhisholesticktheminhismouth makehimeathisownassjuicemygobsofspitheslurpsmyfingers hisholeridesmychin

So over in the corner one of the bus boys had been getting plowed by the other boys since the first round of hits and was getting close to cumming. The mechanic got the rig ready and tied him off. Big beautiful vein in the crook of his arm. Kid’s dick was dripping pre-com and visibly throbbingohsoclose ingoespointquickregisterandplungejackplungjack buddyshovedfourfingersuphisasshole grabsthekidsdickwiththeotherhand. Jackshimtwothreetimes twiststheasshole andthekidcumsthickropes shootingtohisnippleshischinintohismouth assholespasmingtweakingtwitching andthekidsags

In the dark area a grope of people entangledonfloorcoucheachother harddicksopenmouthsopenasses mouthsonassholessuckinglickingbitinglicktastebuttjuicetouguesfuckingassholedicks andthecumstarts stenchoftestosteronethickenoughtogagifitdidn’tsmelltastesogood cumspurtslongdrippyspurtsonfacesassholesinmouthsonchestsonbuttcrackshairfaces drippingstickycummorecumandmorecum smearingjuicespreadinglikeglue 

wipingstickyhandsonstickybodiesfacesbacksbuttscocksballs everydropwipedwideandfar thegruntsgroanslaughterofmeninamassgroupsexpleasures mendoingmendoingmen

Everyone kicked back, dancing drinking lines hits weed and the tempo begins to rise and the eyeing more bold the grabbing less playful moresitonmyfingers.

Over in a corner, the gallery was on its second round. Interesting 3-way: the mechanic is mixing an 8-ball. For those unfamiliar with the nomenclature of speed freeks: the mechanic is the best person with a rig.

[For additional information on intravenous drug use, refer to Addendum at end.]

Several bus boys started some boy’s game from the Philippines involving rolling a heavy object between spread legs into the balls. The object was to outlast opponents’ ability to absorb pain. Then someone suggested that anyone who quit had to take a paddle from all the spectators. 

The possibility of that many swats encouraged staying in the game, but crushed balls take a toll, and one by one hard asses were offered up to swats. A belt was pulled from discarded pants, and the crack of leather resounded. Finally, the winner remained seated. His prize? Bukakke butt. 

The remaining bus boy drew straws. Four long straws circled the boy on the floor, pulled him by his ankles onto his back, exposing a pale pink anus already greasy. Rotating positions the boys took turns plunging thick dicks in, pumping a few times, pulling out for the next one to take the plunge.

Tempo sweat faster music slimyasshole firstdick explodinginhishandbut

stickitiinpullitout squirtsofropythickjuice onetwothreefour andthesouschef

hasasurprise:atrayoficedteaspoons passedaroundthespoonsareuseful

thebusboyisstillonhisback hisassstillpointedup thespoonsdipinandspoonoutallthecuminsideeatingitpassingitaround

feedingittoeachothertohim dipinspoonout passitaround

The initial rush of the acid subsiding, those so inclined retreat to the shooting gallery over in the corner for boosters, others hit the make-shift bar. Joints are passed. Someone notices it’s almost 2:00. So .. .  .

The group joins touching hands sliding ballsswingdicksthickenandswell

Mouthstongueslipsnecksnipplesnipbiterollingnippletipsbetweenteethbite

Bodies push together handsslidebetweenasscheeksfingersfindholes

Holesareatretchedspreadwithfinferstwothreefourfourtwistinginsidehot

Hotholestongueslickslickskinballsassholdlicktheskinslickpushitinlicklick

Dickshardupassesthendownthroatslickthatslinethatlubethatspitcum

Twelvemenandboystwistingintosextwistingintodicklickingholesfingers.

In the end, a remarkable change. Everyone smiles, relaxes, slumps into each other. Standing sliding moving hands chests guts asses dicks nipples lips cheeks touching

And the circle remains unbroken. 

Addendum Regarding Drug Use

Over in a corner, the gallery was on its second round. Interesting 3-way: the mechanic is mixing an 8-ball. For those unfamiliar with the nomenclature of speed freeks: the mechanic is the best person with a rig. Two main ways to hit a vein: the tap-tap where after tying off, the mechanic taps until he gets a register – a small squirt of blood – it lets him know he’s in the vein and can begin ‘jacking’ the rig – injecting liquid, pulling back out, back in, until it’s all in. Second method: standard blood draw stick – just straight in – this is usually a trained skill, but also picked up by needlefreeks.

Now about the 8-ball. Premium high for a speedfreek. Mix 1/3 pharmaceutical grade cocaine with 2/3 clean crystal methamphetamine in a teaspoon – stainless steel recommended as non-reactive to the mixture. Depending on the user, the quantity of liquid – triple-distilled water is available at some larger drug stores; at the very least, use filtered – can be varied. For someone wanting a jolt, possibly 5 cc. In,wham,out. For someone wanting the hit ‘jacked’ (see above), at least 10 to 15 cc liquid; personally, I liked 20 cc, I enjoyed watching the ebb and flow as the rush built with every jack. If it is all clean, you get the taste of the ether used in the manufacturing process in the back of your throat. The coke works on specific areas in the brain. The speed is a body drug. Both combine to make you feel veryveryvery good.

Personal story: My path crossed that of Mark in the late 70s in San Francisco. I was running my escort service and working a real job; money flowed. Mark was a straight guy who had been given a general discharge from the Army for drug use and came to California rather than face his mid-West family. He introduced me to shooting up; then I introduced him to shooting up naked, then to sex while shooting up. 

Point in time: we were sitting on my mattress, he had hit me with the perfect mix, I stood alcohol cotton ball on the spot in the crook of my elbow, elbow over my head (speedfreek superstition: it’ll get you higher). I remember looking down at his body knowing what was happening as soon as he hit himself, and said, “Don’t know the future, but I will never feel better than I do right now. “ He just looked up, grinned, hit the big vein on the bicep, jacked, popped it out, and washed the rig.

This is standard for any needle freek: Keep Your Rig(s) Clean! Immediately after use: fill barrel with bleach or rubbing alcohol (Everclear would work in a pinch but why waste it), let sit one minute, then empty, then repeatedly rinse with sterile water. Keep points (if the detachable kind) in alcohol; check inside to make sure no clotted blood.

I shot up speed/cocaine for the better part of ten years. Having tracks was the worst consequence. Tracks are where the needle goes in; as veins callous from being punctured, the process gradually moves up the shoulder. I knew some really hard-core who had to use veins where they could be found (watched one guy look for a vein in the back of his hands, in the calf, finally between the toes. Brutal.) But I was fanatic about cleanliness. Alcohol wiped both before and after. Neosporin between hits. It paid off in no abscess, no infections, etc.

I’d guess I last shot up about 1985